


Regress

by kgirl1



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen, Kallus pre-Fulcrum, Post-Episode: s02e17 The Honorable Ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 23:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10864722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kgirl1/pseuds/kgirl1
Summary: Kallus reflects on his time spent on Bahryn with Zeb. A short (and belated) oneshot set after "The Honorable Ones".





	Regress

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, this fic is my first attempt at getting all of my work on fanfiction.net up on this site as well (which hopefully explains why I'm posting something written during season two). Hopefully more to come.

_“I knew you’d find me eventually.”_

Kallus had been haunted ever since his return to the Star Destroyer. He had not realized that Zeb’s departure would impact him so strongly.

Even the way their leader had so confidently greeted the Lasat. _“Told you he’d be fine.”_

The connection between the ragtag troupe was as obvious as it was intimate. Kallus had never known anything like it. He barely remembered his family; it seemed the Academy had been all he had ever known. Rules, regulations, enforcement. He had been successful, the head of his class, but watching the Lasat… Zeb… be welcomed home…

None of that seemed to matter.

_“We’ve been in it for two seconds!”_

_“Yeah, two seconds too long!”_

Had he ever, in all his years, had an exchange as playful and bantering as the one he had just witnessed? The agent could not for the life of him remember the last time he had used a jocular tone. It seemed every exchange on the base was so formal and cold, returning almost made Bahryn seem warm.

The whole encounter still perplexed him. The fact that the Lasat hadn’t killed him from the start was not entirely implausible, under the assumption the rebels held themselves to some presumptuous honor code. But the parallel fact that he had intentionally passed over his chance to rid himself of one of the rebels, of one of the beings that had been a thorn in his side him for months?

It was nearly unfathomable. And yet, he had let it happen, all the same.

He wondered what had come over him— It would be easy to blame the cold, the exhaustion, the injury. The heat of battle, or that the bonzami posed a much larger threat at the time.

But, no matter how desperately he wanted it to be, it was not that simple.

It had been a relief, when the rebel ship touched down. Not because he would be rid of Zeb, but because he would be free from the agony of the decision, of whether or not to kill him.

Now he faced another crossroads: whether or not to join them.

The thought, surprised as he had been to discover it, had lingered ever since their ship departed.

_“We picked up your beacon. We were so worried!”_

He had sensed an almost maternal affection from the Twi’lek pilot, as the band of them descended from the ship. Kalus did not remember the last time he had heard anything so reminiscent of parental concern. There was little of that in the Empire; indifference was much easier to come by. He was struck, for the first time, by the fact that every being he had ever worked with or known was entirely replaceable.

Including himself.

Something told him this was not the case amongst these rebels. Any loss would be one not of resources, but of great anguish and suffering. It pained him, for a moment, to think of the pain they would face had Zeb been struck down by one of the bonzami, or the cold.

Kallus shook his head. What had that Lasat done to him? Imagining the bereavement of others, considering joining their ranks… it was madness, absolute hysteria. He rose abruptly and fiddled with the thermostat in his room, hoping for the heat to melt away whatever ideas had seeped into his brain.

When he turned away from it, he paused, once again finding himself staring at the quarters. His quarters.

Though they could have been anyone’s, really. He was certain they matched everyone else’s on the ship. Gray metal, a beige bunk. A single storage unit and lines, lines and panels and divisions everywhere you looked.

He found himself wondering what their ship looked like. On the inside, that was. How their sleeping arrangements were organized, where they ate, where they gathered. He had done hours of research on them; he knew the Mandalorian was a painter. Had she decorated the walls, leaving her own personal tag as she did on their various strike sites?

The agent raked a hand through his hair. This was ridiculous. He was longing for the very thing he was fighting against, the very thing that would destroy the way of life he had spent years protecting. _Blasted rebels,_ he thought angrily, pushing out of his room, suddenly disgusted and infuriated by it.

It was foolish of him, to even entertain the notion of joining them. In fact, it was foolish that he was still thinking about them at all. He resolved to put an end to this irrationality just as Admiral Konstantine was coming through the corridor.

“Agent Kallus.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head as he passed.

Kallus did not reply. And it seemed like a miniscule victory, until he remembered that the Admiral did not truly care.


End file.
